I’m glad he’s back in the dugout, but man am I going to miss his commentary on games.

Secretly, ESPN management is probably happy he’s leaving. He exposed all those other so called baseball experts. Their egos were probably getting bruised pretty good. My father would be really excited about the whole thing. Pity he’s not here to see it.

Most days I get in a four mile hike. Today, it was eight. There are plenty of good spots, lakes, river banks and bike trails. I have seen countless inspiring sunrises, sunsets, rainbows, wildlife…today I happened upon a bald eagle perched on a thirty foot snag overlooking a large lake. I was able to get within a few yards of the tree.

The thought came to me that I was glad the eagle was named our national bird. Benjamin Franklin wanted it to be the Wild Turkey. I’m glad that was one idea Ben had that wasn’t accepted. The eagle is a majestic animal. It is our symbol of freedom.

When I was a kid we’d often go to the local field. Well it was a true field, not what you’d picture as a manicured baseball diamond. The infield was this powdered sand where anything but a line drive just checked up right there like a sand trap. The outfield was a mowed hayfield. The ball went all directions when it landed on a fly and jumped a mile in the air sometimes right over your head when you were fielding a ground ball. We called it a popcorn outfield. The fence was a wooden and wire snow fence and behind it grew the thickest multiflora rose bushes known to man. Big thorns on those suckers.

Anyway, I usually initiated the neighborhood roundup of kids my age. I’d go door to door on my bike with the necessary bat, glove and ball recruiting players. It was kind of like getting a poker game together. Sometimes I’d get enough to play two teams against each other. That was always controversial because we usually had to call on kids that 1. couldn’t play the game very well and 2. weren’t really that interested in it. Resulting in 3. Us having to let them play anywhere they wanted and hit anywhere in the order they chose. Or 4. They would go home.

So mostly, I settled for five or so really good players and we’d play homerun derby. I remember one game of homerun derby that broke up when somebody pulled a little box of wooden matches out of his pocket and started lighting dry grass on fire. Unfortunately it ended in all of us hiding in the woods when the entire field caught on fire and threatened to burn down a nearby home. I got really worried when the pine trees that were right next to the house went up in flames. The local volunteer fire department did a nice job putting that baby out and saving the house. I’m sure the statute of limitations is up and I’m pretty sure my mother doesn’t read letstalkpitching.com.

Anyway, just to prove that men can grow old but they don’t have to grow up…not long ago me and a bunch of my buddies from work got together and went to the local high school field. That’s right. To play homerun derby. I had served some really good one’s up and it was my turn to hit. The best athlete of the bunch just happened to be in right field standing just on the other side of the fence with a first baseman’s mitt. Behind him was a public walkway made of asphalt. I had hit a few over the fence but none as far as the walkway yet. I crushed one, got it right on the sweet spot and it took off like a rocket. I was busy admiring the height and projected depth of the thing when suddenly I noticed an elderly woman walking on the aforementioned public walkway. That homerun was on a path for that lady’s head. I was pleading for my buddy, who is all of 6’4" to leap and intercept that thing. He jumped and by some miracle the ball settled in the webbing of the glove about a foot from smashing into that women’s skull. She kept walking, oblivious to the knowledge of how close to death she had come.

All this serves to reinforce my conviction that some things never change.

This time of year is perhaps my favorite. It is not uncommon to wake up to frost on the grass and temperatures in the 20’s especially if there has been a clear night. The temperature may climb only into the 30’s or it can go into the high 50’s if there is a deep blue sky and sunshine for most of the day. I don’t know what I would do without the seasons.

Not the four seasons…the hunting seasons. Most people divide their year into Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter. I have the Pennsylvania Game Commission “Seasons and Bag Limits” bookmarked on my computer. We just finished up six weeks of archery season for deer and a season for fall turkey hunting. Before the upcoming rifle season for deer there is a nice time for hunting rabbits and pheasant. I actually “harvested” (politically correct language for shot and killed) a pheasant on Thursday and a rabbit on Friday. There is also a short four day season for black bear. I have never killed a bear. They are a majestic animal when viewed in nature. I guess they deserve shooting just as much as the lowly squirrel. That’s what the season and bag limits appear to imply.

The first day of rifled deer season is something of a holiday. Schools close because well, kids wouldn’t be there anyway. They are out in the woods looking to “harvest” a whitetail deer with their fathers proudly standing by to shoot the deer if their son or daughter misses. My kids are better than average shots. I can only recall having to invoke eminent domain on three occasions.

Following the rifled deer season is the flintlock muzzleloader season. It is quite nice to have all these different seasons so that you can collect a deer with a bow/arrow, a shotgun, a rifle, a muzzleloader and a crossbow if you fancy that. I always thought using a crossbow was cheating. You’d think with all these opportunities for deer hunting that Pennsylvania would have a sparse population. You’d be wrong. Sometimes it’s hard to tell who is hunting who?

When the deep snows of January and February come on there is still late season archery and predator hunting/trapping. Followed by Spring turkey, almost year round groundhog hunting, waterfowl, dove and crows to name a few more. Oh yeah, I almost forgot the Elk hunt. If this all makes you wonder if anything is off limits…well yes. You can’t kill a chipmunk. They are protected. You can’t make this stuff up folks.

The wife won free tickets to the theatre called The Grand Theatre, we’ve been there before to see some stand up, this was our first time going to see a live play.

I thought it was just going to be a renactment of Miracle on 34th Street, turned out to be a musical. All in all I was pleasantly surprised and it turned out to be a pretty good show. The girl they had play Susan was actually from London and was only 7 years old, it was her first foray into acting, she handled the roll very well.

I had the whole fam damily over for dinner to celebrate my oldest son’s birthday. I cooked up some thick steaks, shrimp scampi, broccoli and cheese, baked potato with sour cream and butter, fresh corn, home baked rolls, apple sauce, and for desert I made an ice cream, graham cracker treat topped with some fudge I whipped up from a recipe using Nestle’s cocoa. Don’t forget…life was meant to be shared with the one’s you love.

I went hunting with a physically disabled man today. In the morning he bagged a very nice deer. He field dressed and tagged it and I dragged it out of the woods for him; threw it on the four wheeler and took it to his car. In the afternoon same story. He shot a nice deer. I said, “Meet you back at your car?” Dragged the deer out of the woods, loaded it on my four wheeler and tossed it into the trunk of his car.

Shaking his hand I kidded, “Next time don’t be such a game hog!” All kidding aside, I was glad to be the one able to help and not the one needing it. On my way home, I listened to some Christmas music and counted all my blessings starting with each member of my own family. It had been a very fulfilling day of hunting even though I wasn’t bringing anything home but memories.

A man I worked with passed away recently a victim of cancer at the young age of 63. As a young man he volunteered for the Marines on the buddy system. He served in Vietnam and was awarded three purple hearts. After he was wounded the third time he wanted to return to his unit but the Marines told him he’d done enough, and sent him home. He always regretted doing that.

He came back and served over 20 years in law enforcement and then retired. He was a very quiet man. I believe people like this more than make up for some of the lesser examples we notice in our daily walk. We don’t hear enough about them. Not near enough.